Chapter 26 Colt
Colt
The brush of her lips against mine feels like coming home. I was worried that I might hurt her emotionally by getting too close, but my body remembers the feel of Stella even if my brain doesn’t.
I’m like an addict, and now that I’ve had a taste—relapsed into the drug that is her touch—I don’t think I can ever go back.
I tighten my hold on her waist, digging my fingertips into her soft flesh. When her tongue gently brushes against my lips, I physically can’t rein in the growl that erupts from my chest.
I open my mouth to her, feeling every nerve in my body be overcome by her presence. The soft flick of my tongue against hers has me officially dropping all reservations.
My hands drag down to cup her backside, and pull her onto my lap, her knees straddling my hips.
She lets her weight fall against me, and I feel myself hardening in my sweatpants. It’s like a Pavlovian response to being in her vicinity.
Running my hands back up, I let my fingers brush under the hem of her shirt. The feel of her bare skin—
Loud music blaring.
Tight blue dress, pressed against a brick wall.
A car alarm.
I pull back from her, panting. I try to chase the memory, wanting to see the rest. It slips through my clutches, and I growl again—only this time from frustration.
My head is starting to ache from the effort of trying to remember. Or maybe it’s because this is the most physical activity I’ve gotten in two weeks. Probably both.
“Colt? Are you okay?” Stella asks, green eyes shining with fading lust and growing concern.
“Yeah, I just…for a second I thought I remembered something.”
“Tell me. Maybe I can help.”
“I don’t know. A blue dress, a car alarm.” I scrunch my eyebrows, trying hard to bring back the images.
“Our first kiss,” she whispers, and I dart my gaze back to hers. “That was the first time you kissed me. You rescued me from some douchebag at the bar and took me outside for some air.”
“Feeling you up after you’d been harassed? Sounds like you escaped one douchebag just to get caught in the hands of another.” I may not remember our timeline getting to know each other, but if it was our first kiss, we can’t have known each other long.
A wave of self-depreciation takes me by the throat. As far as I can tell, my memory loss only goes back two years, but for some reason, I feel like I don’t even know who I am anymore.
I remember meeting Booker and Drew at tryouts. I remember the first few weeks of class at St. A’s. Early practices, getting to know the team freshman year. It’s all there, but it’s vague.
Yet everything’s different. Beau’s changed—more mature, more present. Booker and Drew act more familiar with us, even though it feels like I only met them a few weeks ago.
My body is different, too. Bigger, taller, more muscular. I remember being a lean, six-foot-one nineteen-year-old, and suddenly I woke up as a giant, jacked hockey star.
I was a good player in high school. Great, even.
Growing up, I had spent every spare moment on the ice.
But since waking in that hospital, I’ve watched some of my highlight reels from the last two years, and my skills have improved astronomically.
I wasn’t surprised to learn that scouts had been asking about me.
I’d also pulled up the video from the game two weeks ago. I had been on fire, scoring two goals, assisting with the others.
And then, in the blink of an eye, I was lying in a pool of blood. I wanted to shut the laptop, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away. The slow-mo instant replay showed my chin strap breaking, showed my head whipping back. I’m lucky I didn’t break my neck.
The video had cut to a shot of Stella running down the stairs, being stopped by a guard. That’s when I paused the video and closed my computer. Seeing the look on her face hurt worse than watching myself get injured.
Her soft touch on my cheek brings me back to the present. Looking at her now, I can’t help but recall the fear, horror, and raw panic that had been painted on her face that day. Sitting on my lap here, her eyes are patient, caring; she’s trying to gauge what I’m thinking, how I’m feeling.
“Colt, you are the kindest, most compassionate man I’ve ever met.
I—if you knew everything, you’d know I would never, ever be with someone who only wanted my body.
I chose you because you’re different. You’re nothing like that guy from the bar.
Whatever you’re thinking, I want you to know that it’s wrong.
I chose you, so give yourself some credit. ”
I lean my head into her chest, pulling her into a hug. “I don’t think I deserve you.”
“You deserve so much more than the hand you’ve been dealt.
” Her fingers brush the short hair at the base of my skull, careful not to touch the tender skin any higher up.
“Don’t get upset—don’t make yourself frustrated.
The doctor said it was best for you to stay calm.
The memories will come back when they do. ”
I nod, pulling back and planting a chaste kiss to her lips again.
“Hey, guys, we’re going to head over to the resort to—oh, sorry,” Beau’s standing in the doorway, a playful smirk spreading across his face. “I really need to learn to knock when it comes to you two.”
Stella’s face flushes, and she lets out an embarrassed giggle, and I get the feeling I’m on the outside of an inside joke.
“Anyway, we’re going to go find some food. Want to join?”
“Sure, just give us a second,” Stella says, sliding off my lap. When Beau’s gone, she looks at me to explain, “He walked in on us…on the couch at your apartment once.”
I raise my eyebrows, unsure if I should laugh. Damn. On the couch?
“Anyway, we should go,” she says, pulling me up and out the door.
A few hours later, we’re lying in bed, stomachs full and jet lag catching up to us. I had kissed Stella goodnight, not because it felt like the right thing to do, but because I wanted to.
Beau tosses and turns in his bed, rolling to face me. His form was outlined by the faint light coming through the window.
“You good, C?” he asks quietly.
“Not really, but I can fake it for a week.” Honesty is always easier in the dark.
“Wanna talk it out?”
“Come on, B, what are we—teenage girls?” I scoff, turning my head in the stupid fucking donut pillow.
“Don’t do that. Don’t act like we don’t talk.”
I only hesitate briefly before relenting. “Everyone just keeps telling me to wait for the memories to come back on their own. But what if they don’t?” It’s the first time I’ve voiced the fear out loud.
“Then you’ll make new ones. You’ll heal, and you’ll live your life just how you were before.” He sounds so sure.
“How do I know that what I was doing before is what I want if I can’t even remember what I had?”
This causes him to pause for a minute. “Do you still want to play hockey?”
“Yeah…I think so. This was a freak accident. I’ve never been scared of getting hurt before.”
“Okay, so when your head is healed, you’ll get back on the ice and catch the eye of dozens of scouts.
Your comeback story will be epic, and you’ll go pro, with so many NHL offers you won’t even know where to sign.
You’re Colton fucking Crosby. A bump on the head didn’t make you forget how to skate. ”
I chuckle into the darkness, remembering why he’s my best friend. He always knows what to say, no bullshit.
“What about Stella?” I ask, deflating a little.
“What about her?” he asks cautiously.
“How do I…how do I do this without hurting her? I can see it—the way it crushes her that I don’t remember.
What if it’s just better for me to let her…
move on, I guess. I don’t want to shackle her to me.
I don’t remember meeting her, our first kiss, our first conversation, our first anything.
What if she’s trying to love a ghost, and I’m not him anymore? ”
Beau’s quiet for so long that I’d be inclined to think he fell asleep—if I didn’t know how loud he breathes when he’s passed out.
Finally, he says, “I can’t tell you what to do, but I can tell you she said almost the exact same thing to me about you at the hospital.
She didn’t want you to torture yourself over not remembering her, because she knew you would.
Stella is here for you, no questions asked, no pressure.
And the fact that you both love each other enough to consider letting go should tell you exactly why you shouldn’t. ”
His words sink deep into my soul, resonating with that small kernel of guilt and fear I had been holding on to.
“You’re pretty wise for a guy who has major commitment issues,” I tease, trying to lessen the heaviness of the conversation.
He snorts and turns over, pretending to go to sleep and ignore my jabs. But I lay awake for a long time, contemplating his words.
“Good morning,” I greet Stella as she comes down the stairs. “Do you like pancakes?” I ask, flipping one over in the skillet I’m currently handling.
“You…you’re cooking breakfast?” she asks, her voice oddly quiet. Shocked, even.
I chuckle. “What, I didn’t cook for you before? My dad would’ve killed me if he knew I didn’t cook my girl a meal. He loved to cook.”
“Yeah. You told me that once. He wanted to go to culinary school. I’m sorry I never got to meet him,” she says, approaching my side. She looks at me with bright eyes, like she’s…proud? Of my pancake skills?
I plate the pancake—it is impressive, I guess—and slide it to her along with the maple syrup.
Instead of eating, she just stares down at the plate like she can’t bear to cut into it.
“Is something wrong? Am I supposed to know some meaningful backstory about pancakes that I’ve forgotten?
” I scrunch my eyebrows when she giggles, covering her mouth with a hand that’s swallowed by the sleeve of one of my old crewnecks—one I’m just now noticing she slept in.
The sight of her in my clothes makes me irrationally horny, and I don’t even remember sleeping with her.